


A Prophet in His Own Country

by lindmere



Series: Passing Through [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmere/pseuds/lindmere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy is having trouble adjusting to be half of the highest-profile couple on shipboard, and an official visit from Admiral Subramanya is not helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prophet in His Own Country

**Author's Note:**

> Grateful thanks for beta reading to [sangueuk](/users/sangueuk) and [Zerrah](/users/zerrah).

Open flames are generally prohibited on starships. At the same time, cultural items, like meditation lamps, are permitted. Such contradictions between operational necessity and personal expression comprise dozens of Starfleet regulations, yet it is impossible for such regulations to anticipate, let alone encompass, all such possible conflicts, since the number of planets, individuals, and regulations in Starfleet is constantly increasing.

The proper symbol for such diversity is, of course, the IDIC, but Spock prefers the meditation lamp. Thus the tranquil flame that should represent the taming of the destructive power of emotion serves for Spock instead as a reminder of the inevitability of conflict between that which he is and that which he must live within. It is a not a meditation likely to bring peace.

Meditation is difficult in any case when she who is not yet his wife is stepping noiselessly around his quarters, gathering her clothes. Her graceful movements are never deliberately provocative, but they never fail to provoke. Spock hears the hiss of silk as the robe slides from her shoulders. She is naked now, and it is not the discipline of meditation but a stubborn game between them that prevents him from turning around. He listens to her getting dressed, can identify every article of clothing she puts on by sound.

In all the time they’ve been together, they have never spent a ship’s night in each others’ quarters. He had been surprised to discover that her people’s concepts of marriage are as strict as his own. Whatever else they do, she holds back this one thing to honor tradition. Someday—and it is beyond his discipline not to have this wish—someday soon, they will go to her people together. He visualizes it often, the red soil and hot, dry air; a second home of his choosing where, she tells him, he will be welcomed as a son and a brother. On New Vulcan, his father has already established a household. It is logical that he should remarry, and select a Vulcan bride for his son. Spock anticipates a time when his father will also meditate on the conflict inherent in diversity.

She drops a hand on his shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. He raises his hand and they brush their fingers together. She moves so easily between languages, between worlds; has been doing so since the day she was born. “Bye bye,” she whispers. “See you in the morning,” and she is gone, leaving behind the after echo of her touch on his flesh and in his mind. He makes no effort to suppress the feeling, or its effect. Instead, he allows his awareness to spread outward on the soft wings of her departing essence to encompass the ship as a whole, a thousand beings, yet no more than a dozen with a psionic presence of any significance. These he shields himself from as a matter of course. The rest form a background vibration of living thought that is, to him, as integral to the  _Enterprise_ as the hum of its engines.

Yet there is one mind he searches for and nearly always finds, sometimes bright with activity, other times quiescent in sleep. Psionic patterns are as distinctive as fingerprints in humans, yet like fingerprints are difficult to distinguish without considerable practice. Night after night, Spock has searched for the mind of Jim Kirk until he can make it out like a flame in the darkness. Over time it will clarify, resolve into moods and feelings and finally thoughts, intensifying until he can sense it across any distance, across galaxies if necessary. Spock devotes himself to this practice because Kirk’s mind is his unique responsibility, just as his body is Dr. McCoy’s, or the ship’s engines are Mr. Scott’s. That he has not explicitly mentioned this to the captain is of no consequence. He is sure that the captain knows, or if not, he suspects. And if he does not suspect, has not felt the brush of Spock’s mind in the silences, it is because his attention is well engaged elsewhere. Spock is not the only one who has taken on a new burden for Jim’s sake.

\+ + + + +

McCoy poured himself another cup of coffee, one he needed even less than the first. It was a trade-off: caffeine nerves for something to do with his hands instead of fidget while he waited through 50 minutes of an hour-long meeting for the only agenda item he could bring himself to care about. He could use the boost in any case, since Kirk had kept him up until the wee hours doing things that--in light of his also being the bastard who called a staff meeting at 0730—could be construed as sadism. At the time he’d thought of it as no more than Jim saving up for a rainy day, in this case a tough ten-day mission under the scrutiny of a hard-assed higher-up. Looking at him now, almost vibrating with nervous energy, McCoy wondered if he’d been trying to diffuse some type of anxiety. It hardly made sense; Kirk was blithely unconcerned about Starfleet brass, thrived on ridiculous workloads, and had so little to worry about in terms of his bedroom performance that McCoy almost laughed. Instead, he dumped a highly unnecessary third teaspoon of sugar into his cup and sat down.

“—and at 1745 we’ll conclude with a tour of Engineering. After that, she can have the run of the ship until dinner, I suppose.” Kirk looked up from his PADD at his senior staff, seated around the conference table. “Anybody else have any idea what to with an admiral?”

“About that tour of Engineering, captain,” Scotty said. “Are you positive it's not an inspection? Because if she decides to do an inspection, she’s going to see—“

“—the crack in the vertical intermix chamber panel," they finished together. “Dammit,” Kirk said, “you told me we should have gotten that fixed at Starbase 62 and I didn’t listen.”

“Never mind, captain,” Scotty said cheerfully. “I can fabricate something that’ll look almost like the real thing. It should be good enough, unless she gives it a hard kick.”

“Perfect.” The two of them looked at each other with uncomplicated mutual delight. They had almost nothing in common but their fanatical love of the ship, but it was enough that Kirk often came back to bed after his gamma shift perambulations smelling of Scotch and ozone. “OK, so for the protocol stuff—dress uniforms clean, organize your workstation, you know the drill. And don’t try to go drink-for-drink with the admiral; she can really put it away. Now, as for the actual mission—I've got some bad news, kids. Remember how we were going to have ten days to perform a complete planetary inventory of 30 star systems? We received orders from the admiral this morning that we only have six." Sulu and Chekov groaned in unison. "I know, it's nuts. Don't worry, we'll figure something out."

"Sir," Sulu said, appearing upset at having to be anything other than his usual enthusiastic self, "it took Chekov and me two days to work out the optimum flight plan. And I'm sure the sensor analysts are going to have to rip up a bunch of plans and start over, too."

"I will instruct them to commence doing so immediately," Spock said calmly. "I anticipate no trouble with revising the schedule, captain." McCoy rolled his eyes to save Sulu and Chekov the trouble.

"But sir—" Chekov said.

Kirk waved a calming hand at him. "The admiral doesn't arrive until 1600 hours. We won't be at our alpha position until 0600 tomorrow. We have plenty of time to figure it out."

"May I suggest double shifts for key personnel in Navigation, Cartography, and Sensors?" Spock said.

"See, there you go." Kirk jerked a thumb in Spock's direction. "A couple more ideas like that and we'll be all set."

“Captain?” Uhura had not yet broken the habit of raising a finger as if she were in a seminar.

Kirk nodded. “Why is there such urgency to complete this mission?”

“Good question. The Klingons have been making noises about some ancient and probably non-existent territorial claims. Starfleet thinks it’s a prelude to a big land grab. Next week is some big celebration--the Feast of Gore and Matrimony, I think.”

“I believe that is the ‘Feast of Glorious Patrimony,’ captain,” Spock said, deadpan.

“Right. Well, Starfleet Intelligence thinks that's when they'll make their move. Now, it could be that there's nothing valuable in this sector and they're just yanking our chain, waiting to see what we'll do."

“But if there are habitable planets, or thriving civilizations, then it could be a preamble to colonization?" Uhura asked.

“That's the theory.”

She nodded and smiled, satisfied. Of all the achievements of his command, McCoy thought, Kirk winning over Uhura had been among the most impressive. He had courted her as assiduously as he had Spock, not with flattery or charm but with courtesy and professional respect. It had taken almost a year, but Kirk now had a command team that meshed perfectly, in large part on the strength of the individual relationships he had built. McCoy sincerely hoped that wasn’t about to change.

“All right,” Kirk said, placing both hands flat on the table and taking a deep breath. “That leaves just one agenda item.” McCoy’s fingers tightened around his mug, and he preemptively pasted what he hoped was an expression of benign interest on his face.

Kirk tapped his PADD a couple of times and began to read in a hurried monotone. “Pursuant to Starfleet Regulation 367, I wish to inform you that I have initiated an emotional, sexual, biochemical or psychic association, pick all that apply, with another senior officer. I understand that regulations prohibit me or the other officer from using this association for professional advancement including, but not limited to, preferential treatment in the assignment of duties; unwarranted favorability in reviews, recommendations, or promotions; or unequal application of rules and regulations. If you have any questions or concerns you may address them to me, or, if you do not feel comfortable doing so, to the Office of the Chief of Operations at the Admiralty.” He jabbed the PADD a final time and looked up, saying blandly. “Any questions?”

During Kirk’s recitation, McCoy’s eyes had dropped irresistibly to the table. Now he raised them a fraction, enough to see the senior staff looking at each other like guests at a country house where a dead body had just been discovered. For a long moment there was silence, and then McCoy saw Uhura’s manicured finger rise in the air again.

“Uh, captain?”

“Yes, lieutenant?”

“Who is the other officer?”

Kirk fixed her with a cool, blue gaze, lips curving into a smile a few seconds to late. “Guess,” he said pleasantly. “I’ll give you a hint: it isn’t Spock.”

McCoy prayed silently for a moment that Uhura would take it as a joke, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked annoyed and crossed her arms, as if getting ready to become the first person ever to win a staring contest with Jim Kirk. As she did so, her booted foot hit the leg of the conference table, causing McCoy’s coffee to slosh. As he reached to steady it, his shaky hand knocked it over instead, sending a flood of hot coffee across the table. Everyone scrambled, moving their electronics or reaching for napkins, grateful for the distraction. Uhura turned abruptly and glared at him as if Kirk were his dog and had just pissed on her leg.

“Well!” Scotty said brightly, oblivious to the tumult. “’Murder will out,’ as the saying goes. It looks like Dr. McCoy is the lucky man,” he said, reaching across the table to shake his hand. “And the captain luckier still. I’d suggest a party tonight, but seeing as we’re already having one, I’ll just have to drink your healths in private.”

Kirk gave a tight smile and nodded his acknowledgment, gathering his things and muttering “Dismissed” without meeting anyone’s eyes. McCoy was left to mop coffee off the fortunately stain-resistant sleeve of his uniform and make his way out with as much dignity as he had left. His gut clenched a little as he heard the room behind him erupt in furious whispers.

As no one else had left, it was easy to catch up with Kirk without making it look like he was chasing him. McCoy found him waiting for the turbolift and grabbed his bicep when he pretended not to see McCoy, who knew he had both decent peripheral vision and the sense that god gave geese.

“Now wait one damn minute. You are  _not_  just going back up on the bridge after that performance.”

Kirk jerked his arm away. “What performance? I did what I had to do. What did you want me to do, get down on one knee? Release a pair of doves?”

“If you’re trying to piss me off, congratulations, it’s working! Just remember I have a  _lot_  more experience with this than you do, kid. You want us throwing plates at each other in the halls on Deck G, that’s fine by me.”

Kirk took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. “That was not my fault. If Uhura--”

“Don’t you dare blame Uhura, just because she had the guts to ask what everyone else was thinking. You owe her an apology.”

“Why, because she couldn’t mind her own damn business? Do I bring up her personal life at staff meetings? No, I do not, and neither should she.”

“You don’t  _have_  to bring it up because it’s  _not a problem_. Whereas you turned this into a problem because you couldn’t —“ He spotted Chekov trying to scurry by unnoticed, eyes pinned to them with avid interest. When McCoy caught his gaze, Chekov lowered his head and hurried on. “Oh, great. You know how kids feel about parents fighting.”

“There is  _no problem here_ ,” Kirk said with tight, slow emphasis. “I did what was required, and now everyone can  _get over it_ , and that includes you.”

“Ah, the magic words every boy wants to hear!” That made a few heads turn, so he continued more softly, “Well, maybe I  _should_  get over it. Maybe it was a bad idea in the first place.”

“Maybe it was!” Kirk said in an angry whisper. “I haven’t submitted that notification yet. Shall I erase it? Save everyone the trouble my attempt to have a personal life is apparently causing them?”

McCoy stopped short, remembering belatedly that he couldn’t count on Kirk, of all people, not to call a bluff. The adrenaline shot of a bracing argument was draining away, leaving emptiness and a caffeine headache in its wake. “Use your own judgment,” he said tiredly, “since it’s all you seem to trust.” And with that, he turned and walked away from the captain—technically a minor act of insubordination but well worth it, assuming Kirk, in his current mood, was petty enough to care.

+++++

Fortunately, it was a busy morning. Besides the worst excuse for pork barbecue McCoy had ever tasted, Starbase 62 apparently boasted the longest-incubating norovirus on record. A full five days after leaving spacedock, a couple of ensigns who worked in Provisioning arrived after tossing their oatmeal in the mess. That was the signal for decon procedures, a round of antivirals for the ship, and a series of frustrating subspace messages to Dr. Xaanfar-Wilkinson, the CMO of Starbase 62. In spite of McCoy helpfully pinpointing the exact area of the storage bay where the infection originated—not a bad trick at that distance—the CMO had seemed positively bored, at least until McCoy got Starfleet Medical involved. While M’Benga, Chapel and Galena doled out anti-emetics and rehydrating solution, McCoy arranged a long-distance ass-kicking that he hoped would leave Starbase 62 a more hygienic place.

“And fire the chef, while you’re at it,” McCoy muttered, signing off.

“In addition to the electron resonance scan, I suggest we make some old-fashioned cultures.” M’Benga said, lifting a cup of tea out of the replicator. “If they confirm our suspicions, we could write it up for  _Annals of Clinical Microbiology_."

“Knock yourself out. We’ve only been out here a year, and at this rate, I’m going to be writing journal articles until I’m a hundred. These pitiful excuses for medical officers are giving us plenty of material.” He looked around his desk for something to slam, and settled for a crystal paperweight. “I’ve seen kindergartens with better public health procedures.”

“Yes,” said M’Benga calmly, “I have no doubt. As you’ve had a busy morning, doctor, why don’t you go to lunch? I wouldn’t mind getting started on those cultures.”

“Sure. Thanks.” In truth he didn’t feel like being anywhere else, except maybe his quarters, but he had enough experience with M’Benga’s quasi-Vulcan politeness to know that  _go grab some lunch_ likely meant  _get out before you start to piss people off._  Before he did, he took a few minutes to send an updated report the captain, who needed to know he could host the admiral at a formal dinner without also giving her a raging stomach virus. His fingers had typed out a smart-ass addendum for Kirk’s eyes only, something about admirals making people sick, before he remembered that he was mad at him and deleted it. He filed the report and left, purposeful only as far as the doorway.

All morning, in the background, McCoy’s brain had been cycling through sine waves of a _rrogant bastard, serves him right_  and  _he’s new at this, he can’t be a prodigy at everything_. The problem was that it was too difficult to be angry at Jim; he hadn’t had enough practice. Brooding, bone-deep anger took years, and although he’d known Jim that long, there was no deep vein of resentment to mine, only a pebbly surface of minor (albeit frequent) annoyances. The neural pathways for his interactions with Jim Kirk were already formed, and to retrain them was going to take considerable effort.

In the three months or since McCoy had impulsively offered both sex and intimacy to Kirk, they had never discussed what  _it_ was. It wasn’t so much that _it_  was a delicate flower, prone to wither under scrutiny, as that McCoy was not sure what  _it_ could possibly be, while Kirk didn’t seem similarly bothered. It didn’t feel exactly like friendship plus sex, but it lacked the familiar arc of engagement—delicious, anxious uncertainty segueing into hope and finally into bone-deep mutual commitment.

What had happened since that first offer had not been arc and progress, but more an initial moment of clarity followed by random, chaotic insertions into the crazy routine of their lives: waking up in his bed or Jim’s to find Kirk reading or staring at a display panel or gone, having Jim let himself in late at night, full of nervous energy, equally likely to engage in a disquisition on the Klingon Rite of Succession as to push McCoy down on the bed and take him with good-natured ferocity. Sudden, bright glances intercepted at odd moments, shining eyes that stabbed McCoy to the heart, a lancing tenderness that was as likely to end with a hard slap on the shoulder as a sweet nothing in his ear. It might be more than the sum of its parts, and it might be a random collection of unconnected incidents, as meaningless as anything else in this universe.

And then Kirk had casually mentioned forms and registration and consensual relations between officers, a rapid muttering about paperwork and wanting to make sure there were no loose ends before the admiral’s visit, and McCoy didn’t know whether it was a request or a declaration. He had no idea how he could spend so much time with someone—living and working under the same roof, often in the same room—and have so little certainty about what was going through his mind.

While his brain was chewing this over, his feet had been taking him to the Officer’s Mess, so he thought he might as well go in and have lunch. So late in alpha shift, and with the ship in full pre-admiral windup, he hadn’t expected to find anyone else, but there was Sulu shoveling ravioli into his mouth while staring at his PADD, which he’d propped up against a salt shaker.

“Hey, doc,” he said, glancing up briefly.

McCoy punched his usual into the replicator—chicken on wheat with a side of fruit salad—and started to carry it to the opposite end of the table, but Sulu gestured him over, pushing the PADD flat against the table with a sigh.

“It’s hopeless. Unless we replicate the ship, there’s no way we’re going to be able to hit all these planets and get the data we need in six days. I swear it’s a setup.”

“A setup?” McCoy dialed up a coffee, making it a decaf at the last moment.

“Yeah. You know Admiral Subramanya has it in for the captain, right? She wanted Pike to keep the job. Or anybody but Kirk. There are a lot of people at the Admiralty waiting for him to screw up.” Sulu gave a dry chuckle, as if to underscore what a pointless endeavor that was. “So maybe now she’s trying to manufacture something. I mean, that whole back story with the Klingons—that came out of the admiral’s briefing paper, and nowhere else. I’m not sure I buy it. The Klingons don’t stand on ceremony; if they want something, they take it.”

McCoy, nodded, wishing in retrospect he’d read more of the endless background reports that streamed out of Starfleet Intelligence. “Have you shared this theory with the captain?”

Sulu gave a dismissive shrug and swallowed another piece of ravioli. “It’s not my place to interfere. If it’s a decent theory at all, the captain’s already thought of it. I just hate letting the captain down.” He pushed around some congealed cheese with his fork. “You know what’s weird about replicators? Theoretically I can have almost anything I want, but whatever I order, it’s like I’m not in the mood for it.”

“You should do what I do: get the same thing every day. Then there’s no chance of disappointment.”

Sulu dropped his fork and looked up at McCoy. “Well, at least there’s some good news. You and the captain, huh? That’s great. Congratulations.”

“Uh, thanks.” Inexplicably, Sulu was smiling at him as if the whole debacle that morning hadn’t happened.

“I bet it’s tough, right? All that attention. I don’t envy you that part. But it’s great all of the senior staff get along so well. First Uhura and Spock, now you and the captain.” He looked positively happy now, earlier troubles forgotten. “Maybe I should ask Chekov out, huh?” Then, seeing McCoy’s face, he added seriously, “That was a joke. I see enough of that guy as it is.”

+++++

When McCoy arrived back in the Medical Bay there were no new sick crew members and a message from Kirk:  _Sounds like things are under control. Just no barfing on the Flight Deck, please_. Under normal circumstances it would have been a casual, needling joke, but now McCoy had to try to parse out its possible meanings. Was Jim still angry, and if so, angry at him, or at the situation? Was it a sarcastic dig at McCoy's medical ability, or an intimation that he might, on purpose, allow something to happen in the admiral's presence to embarrass him? Long minutes passed and McCoy, still staring at the two short sentences on the screen, mentally kicked himself. He had extracted a promise from Jim, in the early days of their new relationship when he suspected Jim’s interest might prove transient, that whatever happened between them they would never allow it to lapse back into anything less than friendship. Now he was scrutinizing Jim's message the way he used to try to interpret Jocelyn's hairstyle or the way she closed the door, the way the Romans had tried to read omens in lightning and the flight of birds.

It wasn't possible, he hoped, for Jim to think he'd show anything less than a unified front in the face of a hostile admiral. He briefly considered going up to the bridge to tell him so, but rejected the idea, first because Jim was likely to be hellishly busy and second because he wasn't sure what kind of reception he'd get. As embarrassing as a lovers' spat in the hallway had been, one on the bridge would be intolerable. More likely that Jim, who was as unfailingly professional on duty as he was irreverent in his quarters, would simply order him out. The thought of getting a  _What are you doing here, doctor?_  was enough of a deterrent.

The afternoon passed quickly in tidying up in case the admiral decided to pay a visit. McCoy was arranging laser scalpels by wavelength when Chapel touched his arm and said, “It’s 15:30. Don’t you need to change?”

“Oh. Oh, right.” He handed her the scalpel he was holding. “Finish up, will you?”

“Of course, doctor," she said, smiling. "Good luck. We're expecting a full report on the admiral." They all beamed at him as he left, pleased and proud as if they were his parents sending him off to a dance. A great staff, so good at their jobs and so damned  _cheerful_ , despite his many trials of their patience. This, he hoped, he was in no danger of losing, no matter how far awry things went with Jim. This was where he felt comfortable, where he knew he could do his job, and where, for a few moments, he felt like he could be content spending most of his time here and forgoing trips to the bridge, let alone to captain’s quarters and the surface of unknown planets. Here, Kirk’s presence was felt rather than seen, like the wavy lines of electromagnetism in a physics diagram. This was a safe distance.

++++

  
McCoy’s provisional sense of peace ended the moment he put on his dress uniform. It was itchy, stiff-necked and so unforgiving of cut that he thought starships ought to travel with a tailor on board. He slapped on some beard suppressor and combed his hair, overdue for a cut, into reasonable shape. He'd gotten used to the blue tunic, but he never seemed right to himself in a full service uniform; it looked as if his head had been pasted on to some senior officer’s body. Although he weighed no more than the day he'd come on board, the damned thing seemed tight at the seams, as if it recognized him as a pretender and were trying to squeeze him out.   


He hustled to the Flight Deck to find most of the senior officers already there, along with a phalanx of junior officers, all unbearably crisp and eager. Under the stage direction of the Protocol Officer, a man named Herrera, McCoy arranged himself in the middle of the lineup, between Scotty and Giotto. Scotty intercepted his glance as it dropped down to his dress kilt, and winked. “Don’t ask what’s under mine, and I won’t ask what’s under yours.”

Kirk strode onto the deck and every pair of eyes, including McCoy’s, swiveled toward him. It was impossible not to; in his dress uniform, light gray with two narrow white panels that accentuated his height and slimness, he was as handsome as someone’s dream of a captain. He nodded briefly to his officers and took up a position at a right angle to the line, hands clasped behind his back, facing the shuttle bay doors.

The voice of the comm officer on duty boomed through the bay. “The  _Kuyper_  is hailing. Admiral Subramanya is requesting permission to come aboard."

"Permission granted," Kirk said calmly.

The great, curved shuttle bay doors rolled open with a metallic whine, revealing a yawning crescent of open space. Thanks to the force field there was no sudden, lethal depressurization, not so much as a breeze to stir the air. It was one of those counter-intuitive marvels of technology that made surrendering to space seem as benign as opening the window on a summer night. The approaching shuttle appeared first like a bright dot, then like a shiny toy as it glided in noiselessly, hovering for a moment as it switched to thrusters to slip into the welcoming arms of the  _Enterprise_.

The spectacle was majestic and beautiful, and something more. In McCoy's heart there swelled the excitement of some forgotten boyhood dream that against all probability he was living out. He was a senior officer on the best ship in the best service in the galaxy, serving under a captain who was already a watchword for boldness and heroism. These were the dreams of a stack of tattered books in an attic in Georgia, dreams most people gave up when they reached adulthood. Of all the long generations of McCoys who’d cracked those pages, he seemed to himself the least likely to be living them out. But here he was.

The shuttle hovered, insect-like, above the deck for a few moments before landing lightly, feet tapping the deck with a barely audible thud. Lt. Herrera called the crew to attention and there was a hiss as the door opened. The admiral’s staff emerged first; the last out offered a hand down to the admiral, who was quite short. Shaking hands with Kirk, she barely reached his shoulder. Her long hair, black except for a single white streak, was tied up in a bun at the back of her head, and her dark eyes glittered with determination.

“Admiral, may I present my senior staff,” Kirk said, walking her over. They went down the line, exchanging handshakes. Her grip was almost painfully firm. At the end, the admiral glanced around with her hawk-like eyes and said, “These are all your junior officers? And where are chief navigator and helmsman?”

“Preparing for the mission, sir,” Kirk said. “Given the, uh, exigency of the change in timeline, I thought it would be better let them continue their preparations.”

“Did you, though?” She looked at him sharply. “Well, I suppose that’s right. Mission before protocol. You do things your own way, don’t you, Kirk?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “All right, have your yeoman show me to my quarters. I’ll see you in half an hour. I’m going to want to see  _all_  of the ship, captain, not sections you’ve cordoned off for the official tour.” Kirk smiled and nodded, only the slightest bit of tension visible, to McCoy’s eyes, in his back and neck. None of it made it to his eyes, which sparkled with enthusiasm, as if he could think of no better way to spend the afternoon than letting the admiral run a gloved finger along the inside of a Jeffries tube. He gestured to the yeoman, who led the admiral out, followed by Kirk and, at the Herrera’s orders, the rest of the officers. Scotty exchanged a glance with McCoy, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if to say  _that cracked panel on the intermix chamber isn’t going to stay undiscovered for long._

+++++

Predictably, the admiral never made it down to the Medical Bay. McCoy and his staff spent a fruitless couple of hours making stilted conversation and brushing imaginary specks of dust off equipment. He had settled on _formidable_  as the most neutral adjective he could use to describe the admiral and stuck by it, the better not to alarm anyone. A few minutes before 2000, McCoy said good night to his staff and dismissed them.

In the officers’ mess, an impressive feast had been laid out, along with tablecloths and candelabra and a host of items McCoy wouldn’t have thought to find on a starship. Besides the senior staff, there were a handful of mission specialists and a few special guests, brought in to entertain the admiral on the subject of her expertise, which was logistics engineering. Scotty, seated next to him, leaned over and whispered behind his hand, “She’s an absolute nightmare, that woman. She found the cracked panel  _and_  a neutrino leak. Who carries _their own_  particle detector, I ask you? The captain better have something damned impressive up his sleeve or we’re all going to finish this mission as ensigns.”

McCoy had been seated midway down the table, out of firing range of the admiral, but there was no avoiding the conversation, which consisted mainly of inquisitorial questions fired at Kirk, who sat at the other end with Spock beside him.

“Why are supplemental deuterium tanks being stored on the Flight Deck? Isn’t that a fire hazard?”

“Well, sir, it would be, but the _Enterprise_  is involved in a pilot study using deuterium in pelletized form. Storing it in vacant shuttle bays leaves more room in the pressurized cargo holds, which means we can take on larger stores of temperature-sensitive items at starbase.”

“Our average time between reprovisioning stops has increased from 14.2 to 17.54 days in the last six months, admiral,” Spock said. “I can provide you with the fuel and mission productivity statistics if you wish.”

“I’m sure you can,” she said tartly. “You two have an answer for everything, don’t you? Perhaps we should just turn the Chief Quartermaster’s office over to you.”

“I have submitted a number of recommendations over the past several months,” Spock said.

“He has,” Kirk said, nodding earnestly. The admiral had a dry sense of humor, which made it hard to tell when she was joking. In response, Kirk had adopted an uncharacteristically neutral tone. If McCoy could have critiqued anything, it would have been a slight over eagerness to defend not himself, but the ship and crew.

With the high-speed squash game going on between ends of the table, conversation elsewhere labored along in fits and starts. McCoy thought the galley had done a fine job with the main course, chicken Marengo, a pleasant change from the starch-and-protein composites of the replicator. Having taken Kirk’s warning to heart, the other guests went easy on the wine, while the admiral did indeed put it away, glass after glass.

With the arrival of trays of cheese and bottles of brandy, Kirk rose and lifted his glass. “I’d like to thank everyone for joining me here tonight. I would also like to invite those without assigned duties to stay for further conversation, and for everyone to join me in a toast to Admiral Subramanya, wishing her a pleasant and productive stay on board the Enterprise.”

“The admiral!” they all said, hoisting their glasses.

“Thank you, captain,” the admiral said, rising as Kirk sat. “I’m delighted to be here supervising this important mission. We hear a lot about the  _Enterprise_  at the Admiralty. Naturally, as the flagship, it comes under a great deal of scrutiny. For that reason, and for others,” she said, glancing pointedly at Kirk. “I was impressed with what I saw today, barring some minor maintenance and protocol issues that I’m sure will be promptly addressed following my report.” McCoy felt Scotty kick him under the table. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the significance of the effort we’re undertaking in the morning. The Klingons would love to see us fail. In fact, I invite you, every time you consider cutting corners on a task or omitting a step, to ask yourselves, ‘Who stands to benefit from this omission? Starfleet, the Klingons, or the Romulans?’ To that end, I would like to propose a toast. To the success of our mission!”

“The success of our mission!” everyone parroted back.

With much screeching of chairs, the party broke up. The mission specialists scurried gratefully away, leaving only the senior officers, standing in somewhat awkward clusters at what they hoped was a safe distance. It was useless; the admiral circulated among the groups, firing her torpedo-like questions. McCoy had positioned himself—strategically, he thought—on the other side of a sofa with his back to her, but to no avail.

“Dr. McCoy!” The admiral grabbed his arm, swinging him around to her rather than crossing around to his other side. “Pleasure to meet you. I hoped to get down to the Medical Bay today but the truth is that there were quite a few things in Engineering that needed attention. Quite a few,” she shook her head disapprovingly. “I read your proposal on broadening the scope of medical screenings prior to deep space missions. Fine idea. I’m going to bring it up at the next Health & Safety Subcommittee meeting. You’re setting an excellent example for the other CMOs. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to take a position with the Admiralty?” She swirled the brandy in her glass before taking a healthy slug.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been tempted, sir.” He ventured a half smile, and was pleasantly surprised when she smiled back at him.

“Quite right. Here’s my honest advice about the Admiralty: if anyone offers, and they will, run in the opposite direction. You’d hate it.” She clapped him on the arm and left her hand there, dropping to a confidential tone so that McCoy had to bend his head down to hear her. “By the way, I understand you and Kirk are an item. You know, regardless of what happens with this mission, that’s going to be the big news at the Admiralty? You see, that’s just what I mean about them—nothing but gossip. Damn bunch of teenagers.” Not seeing, or perhaps ignoring, McCoy’s look of mild horror, she patted his arm again. “Well, I hope to see more of you in the next few days. Good luck, doctor.” And with that, she moved on to the next unfortunate group.

Uhura glided to his side. “I think she  _likes_  you,” she said wonderingly.

“Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you. And I have no idea why.”

Uhura folded her arms and lowered her head, dropping her already soft voice. “Hey, I wanted to say that the captain apologized to me for this morning. I told him I understood. It’s not easy doing this when the whole ship knows you’re—well, when your business is public. And I’m just sorry it happened that way because I wanted to wish you the best. Whatever the professional implications are, you’re both great guys. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

“Thank you,” he said, genuinely grateful but not surprised. Uhura was innately gracious, and only Kirk’s most persistently annoying attentions had ever made her otherwise.

“You’re probably getting tons of free advice. Want some more?”

“Sure.”

“Make sure the admiral keeps liking you.” She wrinkled her nose. “I could swear she made Spock sweat, and you know that’s physiologically impossible.”

+++++

The party had been mercifully dismissed at 2300, but not before the admiral had requested a full mission plan from Kirk, loaded to her secure comm link, so she could review it with her morning coffee. Kirk, whose gracious-host smile had started to fray around the edges, had promised to have them to her before he turned in for the night.

In the course of the long evening, he hadn’t caught McCoy’s eye once, hadn’t found a moment to take him aside or exchange  _soto voce_  commentary. He was unlikely to have a moment free for days. That left McCoy to continue the conversation—the argument, he supposed—one-sided.

It seemed selfish to ask for anything else from Jim when he gave so much already, but McCoy’s instincts for self-preservation had been honed over the merciless years of his break-up. It would be so easy for things to continue as they were. Their lives were busy and interesting; they could make witty conversation or laugh and the same stupid jokes; they worked together and worked out together and spent most of their free time together.

And yes, they slept together. After Jocelyn there had been only grin-and-bear-it dates arranged by friends that ended in  _pro forma_ (and, he hoped, not utterly terrible) intercourse followed by awkward breakfasts and an absence of follow-up calls. Since shipping out on the  _Enterprise_ , there had been only his own hand, applied like a medical treatment, with dispassionate efficiency, to ward off further problems. Sex with Jim had been all of the clichés and none; though undoubtedly, enthusiastically masterful, he was not a walking encyclopedia of exotic techniques or acrobatic maneuvers. Jim was simply himself: relentless focus and boundless imagination held together with a genuine, selfless kindness. Starfleet had given McCoy back a professional identity, a purpose and self-respect. Jim had bound him to his body again, given him pleasure and hope. As much as he might like to think he cherished principles and pride, it was not something he was likely to walk away from readily, however frustrating his attempts to characterize it might be.

He lay on his bed, dress uniform half-unbuttoned in a desultory fashion, legs crossed, staring at the ceiling, more confused and preoccupied than a 32-year-old man should be. In his own defense there was a great deal tied up in what he was to Jim. His professional identity, at minimum, was safe; he knew Jim respected and coveted his abilities and was not nearly petty enough to toss him off the ship because of a love affair gone wrong. Their friendship he was nearly as certain of, for the same reasons. Spock’s at times disturbingly close proximity to the captain notwithstanding, what existed between them was solid, and for a man with so little apparent history of his own, Kirk valued loyalty and shared experience. A captain, moreover, needed someone who could call him on his shit, and McCoy had never hesitated to do that. All this left him with the question, what were you left with if you subtracted whatever it was that had recently been added? Could he be content to go back, or was he past the point of no return already?

The door chimed. McCoy was so abstracted that he was not actually expecting to see Kirk when he opened it. Jim lingered, sheepish, one arm leaning against the frame of the door, eyes downcast, and McCoy recognized again the futility of trying to sustain a grudge against him.

“I’m an idiot,” Jim said, not moving as McCoy rolled heavily off the bed and walked to meet him.

“Yes, you are. But that was—“ he glanced at the chrono “—almost 17 hours ago. There's a statute of limitations on that kind of idiocy, just so’s you know.” From force of habit he flicked his eyes around the empty corridor before leaning in to kiss him. “Go to bed. You can still get a few hours’ sleep before that bulldog of an admiral starts taking bites out of your ass again.”

Kirk smiled wistfully, undeterred. “Can I come in?”

McCoy eyed him a bit warily. “Depends. What do you want?”

“Oh, lots of things.” It was the worst possible answer, but of course McCoy let him in anyway. Kirk drifted to the bed and sat down, shoulders slumping. “What I really want is for you to fuck me good and hard and then let me fall asleep in your bed. I have a feeling that’s not a good idea, though.”

McCoy shrugged, trying to seem reticent, or at least indifferent. It would be so easy to do just Jim wanted: fuck and fall asleep together, forget about what had happened, and that was exactly the problem. The barriers were as porous as fishing nets.

“Not the worst idea in the world, but yeah, that wouldn’t be at the top of my list.”

“What would? An apology?” He scanned McCoy’s face. “No? An explanation? OK.” He braced his hands against the edge of the bed and huffed out a breath. “It’s a given that I suck at this, right? As long as that’s understood. Well. It seems to me that maybe you were angry because I acted embarrassed this morning, when I was telling everyone. Like I was ashamed of our relationship or something.”

McCoy felt a stab of surprise. It was the one thing he hadn’t considered, and a disappointing conclusion to all his maundering introspection: his ego had simply been hurt. Kirk—surprise, surprise—was pretty good at this, too. To cover his embarrassment, he asked, “ _Are_ you?”

“No!” Jim said, emphatically. “Do I really need to say that? I mean, _look_  at you. You’re  _you._  And you’re a doctor! If there’s an afterlife, my grandmother is there right now, dancing the Highland fling and passing out cigars.”

“I’m glad Grandma approves. So what’s the problem with everyone else knowing?”

Kirk shifted uncomfortably, clasping and unclasping his hands. “I don’t know, I just don’t like to think about people thinking about us. Do you know what I mean?”

“Thinking about us—“

“Fucking.”

McCoy gave a surprised bark of laughter. “You're worried about people thinking about you fucking? Jim, I guarantee you that pretty much everybody on the ship has thought about you fucking, either them or in general. You told me that yourself.”

“That’s different,” Kirk objected. “That’s  _fantasy_. This is my  _actual life_.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Jim, but you’re the one who wanted to be a starship captain. Being you, you want to be the best captain in the Fleet—hell, the best captain in history. There’s nothing you don’t use—your brains, your charisma, and yes, your sexuality, and don’t tell me you don’t. So you can’t expect your crew not to be curious about your private life. And in case you haven’t noticed, the world hasn’t ended. Nobody was tapping their glasses with their forks at dinner demanding we kiss. No pretty young ensigns have slit their wrists because James T. Kirk has a boyfriend.”

“Is that what you are?” Kirk asked, eyes wide. “My  _boyfriend_?”

“You tell me, you’re the one who filled out the forms.” McCoy paused. “You did fill out the forms?”

“Sure,” Kirk said, sounded tired again. “You said it was up to me.” That was in fact far from what McCoy had said, but he didn’t dispute it.

McCoy shrugged. “Well, then.”

But Jim kept sitting on the edge of the bed, head down, hands between his legs, rubbing them nervously. His eyes darted guiltily around the room and his knee bounced up and down until McCoy was ready to scream  _spit it out already_. Finally, at just about the moment he thought he couldn’t stand it any more, Kirk said suddenly, “Are you as scared of fucking this up as I am?”

It stopped McCoy dead, halting the impatient words that were halfway to his lips. Kirk was looking at him with what might have been apprehension, and when he caught McCoy’s eyes he actually flinched a little.

He sat down beside Jim on the bed with extreme caution, as if Kirk were a bomb he were trying to defuse. When he wrapped an arm around Jim’s shoulders, they sagged a little, so he put the other hand on his bicep and said, “There’s nothing to worry about. If it’s about this morning—I’m sorry if it rattled you, but it was a perfectly ordinary argument. A walk in the park. There were months with Jocelyn when that would have been god-damned  _foreplay_.”

“I hate arguing with you,” he said, almost meekly.

“No, you don’t.” It barely raised a smile.

“About this shit, yes, I do.”

“Look I don’t know what the big problem is, and I kind of wish you’d tell me, but maybe you don’t know yourself. So I’ll just say this. Whatever we decide to do or not to—and it will be our decision—I’ll still be your friend. I’ll stay on this ship as long as you’ll have me. You made that promise to me, and now I’m making it to you. Unless you turn out to be evil or boneheaded, which you won’t, those things won’t change.” Kirk nodded slowly, contemplative, as if letting it soak in. The knot in McCoy’s stomach began to unwind a little. He inched his hips closer so he could put his arms around Jim properly, past the point where words could make a difference. Jim took a few deep breaths, as if drawing strength, and then nodded with a little more certainty.

“OK. OK, that’s good to know.” He rubbed McCoy’s arms, up and down, as if reassured by the strength of them. “I guess I was just—“

“Being an idiot?” McCoy finished. “Well, you know what they say, we’re all fools in—“ he stopped abruptly. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I know what’s going through your head most of the time. What I’m trying to say is that the foundation’s secure. If you want more than that, if you like where this is going—well, you're going to have to tell me. You’re the silver-tongued genius. I’m just some poor old SOB who needs a map to find his ass. And I don’t have the best record when it comes to understanding what people want out of relationships. So you decide what you want, and you tell me. I’ll abide by your decision.”

Kirk nodded, that atypical indecision still bothering McCoy. But Jim turned and looked at him with earnest blue eyes and said, “I’ll do that. Thanks.” He patted McCoy’s knee, as if he were being let out of the infirmary after a unpleasant but necessary treatment. “I feel better.” He rose and stretched, arching his back and yawning. “I’m actually grateful that you didn’t offer to fuck it all better. I can’t stay here tonight, anyway. The madness begins at 0600, and Subramanya’s probably going to have a wicked hangover, so I better be there with a sunny smile and a cup of strong tea.”

“You have my profound sympathy. I, on the other hand, am on beta shift tomorrow, so I’m going to sleep in. Unless you‘re planning any fistfights on the bridge I should know about?”

“Not  _planning_ any, but the mission’s still young.” He gave McCoy a quick peck on the lips, as practiced and perfunctory as if he’d been doing it for years. “Sorry for getting all weird on you. Blame it on—ah, I don’t know, less than the recommended daily allowance of Klingons or something.” He turned the door without a backward glance and began to walk out.

“Hey, Jim?” McCoy remembered the  _other_  thing he’d wanted to talk to Jim about, the thing that was probably actually more important.

“Yeah?”

“This may sound like a strange question, but is there any chance this mission is a setup? You know, that you’re supposed to fail at it? I hear Subramanya doesn’t like you.”

“Where did you hear that?” Jim asked sharply.

“Oh, you know. Around.”

“Sulu?”

“Well—“

“Sulu has a lot of friends in San Francisco, and he’s a worrier,” Kirk said bluntly. “If he were here, I’d tell him to worry about getting us to all those planets and leave the politics to me.”

“But just in case—“

“I have friends in San Francisco, too.”

“OK, but there’s another thing. Did you tell the admiral that we’re—“

“Fucking?”

“ _Involved_. Don’t you start with me,” he said, jabbing a finger at Kirk. “You’re going to make me regret feeling bad for you.”

“No, I didn’t tell the admiral. Why, does she know?”

“Yeah, she mentioned it at dinner. Did you send the, uh, thing?”

“Of course. But it went out low-priority subspace. That was the point: so she couldn’t say afterward we were concealing anything, but so she wouldn’t get it before her visit.” He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s weird. Well, any of the officers could have mentioned it, although I’m not sure how that topic would have come up. Shit, it’s probably all over the ship by now.” He tried a shadow of a leer on McCoy. “Not that I have anything to show for it.”

“Go to bed,” McCoy said, waving Kirk away. “Your own. Alone, if you can arrange it.”

+++++

McCoy slept in as he’d threatened, nursing a bit of a red wine headache and reveling in the satisfaction of being in bed when it seemed like everyone was up and working. The halls fairly thrummed with tense activity; an ensign with her head down in a PADD half-collided with him coming around a corner and almost jumped out of her skin when he grabbed her arm to steady her.

The Medical Bay, on the other hand, was a virtual ghost town. Even with the ship in its current state of agitation, it would be 12 hours before crew members started begging him for stimulants and another 24 before they came back complaining of insomnia. McCoy decided to calibrate the phoretic analyzer, a demanding task that would eat up a few hours quite nicely. M’Benga had taken alpha shift, leaving Galena and Khoury to play a desultory game of gin rummy while occasionally offering comments—but not help—to McCoy, who was having more fun than he would have admitted making weird, random combinations of organic substances—wood, nylon and banana being the latest—and having the analyzer attempt to separate them. Hard to believe that while, in this quiet room, McCoy could pry two molecules apart, the _Enterprise_ hurtled through space, bathing planets in electromagnetism, dropping probes, dragging secrets out of world after world. He felt an itch to visit the bridge, but it was a bad day to indulge that itch.

The door opened and McCoy glanced up, expecting to see a crew member nursing a singed body part, and instead saw Admiral Subramanya. Khoury got his feet off the console a second too late, but she ignored him. She was without her entourage and waited patiently while McCoy finished transferring a sticky resin to a test plate .

“Admiral!” He wiped his hands on his trousers, trying to tug the wrinkles out of his shirt. “I’m sorry, sir, we weren’t expecting you. I’d, uh, be happy to give you a tour if you’d like me to call up the rest of the staff.”

“No need, doctor.” She waved a hand, pushing away his offer. "I’d like to speak with you in your office.”

McCoy’s heart sank, and he exchanged a slightly panicky glance with Galena, who was telegraphing  _this is not good_. Trying to look unconcerned, he held out a courtly hand to guide the admiral, who strode into his office and pulled up a chair with a thud. McCoy took a seat behind his desk for what might well be the last time.

“I’ve heard good things about you, doctor,” she began in her customary blunt manner. “Chris Pike says you saved his life. And it may interest you to know that the death rate on the  _Enterprise_  has averaged 1.13 beings per month, as compared to a pre-launch projection of 2.35, the lowest in the Fleet. That’s according to Mr. Spock, who assures me his statistics are always accurate,” she said with a faint smile. “But I’m not just here to pay you compliments. I’d actually like a consultation.”

“A consultation?” McCoy said with surprise. “If you’re suffering from a medical complaint, I’m sure Starfleet Medical—“

“Yes, yes, I have access to the best doctors in the galaxy,” she interrupted. “I’ve already got their opinions. Now I want yours. Doctor McCoy, I have Tenyllin Syndrome.”

“Admiral!” McCoy said with surprise. “That’s an extremely serious condition. If you’re able to keep up such a demanding schedule, I have to assume your current treatment has been effective."

She made a “more or less” gesture with her hand . “I’ve been lucky. It’s been stable for three years or so. But in the last few months, it’s been bothering me more. I sleep more, and I’m drowsy during the day. I seem to be losing fine motor control. I drop things more often.”

“You obviously manage it extremely well,” McCoy said sincerely. “I never would have suspected you had a serious neurological condition.”

“No,” she said with a wry smile, “usually when I’m around I manage to keep people’s attention elsewhere. But my doctor is recommending transgenic gene therapy. He said he’s seen a great deal of success with his patients, but I simply don’t like the idea of having part of my genetic material replaced with that of another humanoid species.”

“That’s not unusual, sir, but I don’t have to tell you that Tenyllin is degenerative. And a number of my patients have changed their minds on the subject of transgenic therapy when they’ve experienced excellent results.”

“Of course, of course.” The admiral drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Nevertheless, could I ask you for a second opinion? Just between the two of us?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ll have to conduct an exam, and I’ll need access to your medical records.”

“That’s not a problem. I’ll see that you’re given permission.” She relaxed a little, the hard lines of her mouth curving into a faint smile. “To be honest, that was the main reason I wanted to come here myself, instead of monitoring the mission from the  _Al-Batani_.”

“That’s what you’re doing here?” he laughed with relief. “You do realize half the ship is working double shifts and thinking they’re one mistake away from being demoted? That includes the captain.”

“Doctor,” the admiral waved a dismissive hand. “It’s good for him. I’ve seen young officers like Kirk before—oh, all right, I’ve never seen one exactly like Kirk before. But it’s never good for officers to become too confident in their own abilities. It leads to bad decisions. You know what his nickname is around the Admiralty? ‘God.’ As in ‘God works in mysterious ways.’”

“So this is some sort of object lesson? Are you setting him up to fail?”

“No, even I’m more subtle than that. The mission is achievable, and I’m sure your crew find a way. But a little introspection and self-doubt is good for the soul. Haven’t you found that, doctor?”

“I suppose,” McCoy said cautiously. “Provided it doesn’t lead to a complete breakdown from stress.”

“You’re worried about him,” the admiral said, not unkindly. “Well, that is your job, after all.” She paused, reflective. “Have you ever been married, Leonard? Is it all right if I call you Leonard?”

“Yes, sir. Once, sir."

“I’m on number three. This time I got smart and went outside the service. He’s a sculptor who wouldn’t know a warp core if it fell on him. Useless as an escort at Fleet events, but he grows flowers and takes me to the opera. I don’t know what your first was like, but you picked a hell of a second. He’s a handsome son of a bitch, I’ll give you that.”

McCoy, nonplussed, didn’t respond, and the admiral continued. “We all fall for the adventure at some point. With some people it’s the technology, with others it’s the unknown. In your case, it’s six feet of blond-haired, blue-eyed hero. I’ve had my turn. Now I sit around conference tables arguing about the optimal thickness of stem bolts so the rest of you can explore the last frontier or whatever the hell they’re calling it these days.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “This is the part where I give you advice and you pretend to listen. These five years are going to go by in a flash, and before you know it you’re going to be sitting behind a desk in Starfleet Medical, working out a new policy on decon procedures and trying to wrangle a bunch of starry-eyed recruits. So here’s the advice: enjoy yourself more and worry less. But don’t tell your boyfriend I said so,” she said, rapping on the desk. “I don’t mind if he stays worried.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, feeling himself flush a little, curiously touched. “Can I ask you a question, sir? How did you find out—well, find out about me and Jim? Did someone mention it to you?”

“No one had to,” she said, with a sudden, girlish smile. “I may be an engineer, but I'm good at reading faces. It was written all over yours.”

+++++

After his conference with the admiral, anything else that happened on the shift was likely to be anticlimactic, and so it was. A steady but light flow of patients came in and out, mostly for routine appointments. Kirk sent him occasional, staccato messages, ranging from _Progress, three down, that gas giant is going to expect me to call it in the morning_  on the open channel to _I swear if she says “slow and steady wins the race” one more time I’m going to fire her out of a launch tube_ encrypted with his personal key. He asked if Kirk needed him on the bridge to dole out stimulants or tranquilizers, and Kirk replied  _No, that’s OK, we’re cranky and groggy enough on our own_. He spent, somewhat guiltily, a quiet evening reading in the Deck F aft lounge, and then went to bed at a reasonable hour.

The morning found him back on alpha shift, feeling like a solid citizen reporting for duty at 0800 to find an ensign with blurry vision and dizziness, and calculated how long he should go before giving the captain (and the admiral) his “duty is duty but enough is enough” speech.

Just before lunch, he got a cryptic private message from Jim _:  We’re going to do this. If I’m called before a disciplinary panel, you’ll certify that I’m crazy, right?_ He was burning with curiosity over what “this” might be, but nervous about the possibility of getting between Jim and the admiral. He had no faith at all in his ability to talk Kirk out of a decision he’d already made, and even less in his newfound camaraderie with Subramanya. He avoiding the “reply” and mentally tossed a coin:  _go to the bridge, don’t go to the bridge_. After a few minutes of this, the doors parted and Spock walked in.

“Oh, lord. This can’t be good.”

“Indeed, doctor, it is not.” Spock clasped his hands behind his back and focused on the middle distance, his good-and-patient-officer stance. “I am here to request that you use your medical authority to remove the captain from the bridge, as his state of sleep deprivation is impairing his judgment.”

“ _Sleep deprivation_? It’s 11 o’clock in the morning. He had a shift down last night.”

“The captain did not leave the bridge last night, and I doubt he slept more than a few hours the night before. I am surprised to find you were not aware of that fact.”

“God damn it, do you think if I’d been aware I would have—“ McCoy stopped abruptly, realizing how quickly he was digging himself a hole. He should have known, as either the captain’s doctor or Jim’s lover; he should have suspected, if he’d thought about it for even a minute, that a little thing like common sense wouldn’t have gotten in Jim’s way with a mission to carry out. He had, it seemed, been thinking too much about Jim to _actually think about Jim_.

“I appreciate you bringing it to my attention, commander,” he said with a semblance of calm. “Now that I’m aware of the situation, I’ll certainly insist that the captain get a full night’s rest tonight.”

“I do not believe the situation can wait. The captain is on the verge of making a decision that imperils the success of this mission. Under Regulation 121, Section A, the Chief Medical Officer may relieve any officer of command if, in his or her judgment, he is medically unfit. Officers so relieved under this regulation need only prove they are fully recovered before resuming duty. I, on the other, may only relieve the captain under Regulation 619, Section B, which requires proof that the captain has acted in violation of a Starfleet regulation, or of a direct and legal order from a superior, and is a much more serious offense.”

“And what exactly is this error in judgment that Jim is about to make?”

“While performing long-range sensor scans in the area of PPM 37283, we detected a small fabricated object of unknown origin. The captain wishes to take it on board, determine its purpose, and if appropriate, return it to its original location. This will require anywhere from 6 to 12 hours, resulting in a significant delay in our mission.”

“I’m presuming Jim has a good reason for wanting to do this?”

“He referred to it as a ‘hunch,’” Spock said, with an air of bafflement McCoy didn’t buy for a minute. He grinned with relief.

“Well, you know he has pretty good hunches. I’ll check him out, read him the riot act if you want. But from what you’ve told me, there’s no reason to relieve him of command. It’s the captain doing what the captain does.”

Spock frowned, considering. “In general, I do not dispute your observation. But in this case, I believe the captain is being closely monitored by Admiral Subramanya. Given the tenor of the admiral’s critique of the crew’s performance, I believe she would welcome the opportunity to find fault with him.”

“So why isn’t she countermanding the order?”

“She made it clear at the outset that she would not interfere. It is from that that I conclude her true intention is to evaluate the captain’s performance, not achieve the mission objective, which is dubious at best. This mission is operational in nature, what the captain calls ‘paint-by-numbers.’ Once all the planning steps are complete, the task is simply to execute to the best of the crew’s ability. Barring unusual circumstances, there is no justification for deviating from that plan.”

“Exactly the kind of mission that Jim hates.”

“Indeed. And usually one that he would not feel the need to personally supervise, except that—“

“Except that he’s got an admiral up his ass. I understand. You know, you may have a point.” He held out a hand toward the door. “What are we waiting for?"

+++++

McCoy could never step onto the bridge without remembering his first high school football game, which was also his last. The lights, twice as bright as anywhere else on the ship, left no shadows; it was shiny and perfect and hyper real. Kirk was not sitting in the captain’s chair but leaning over Spock’s station, with a science officer McCoy didn’t recognize peering over one shoulder and Uhura peering around the other one. The other two peeled away at McCoy’s approach, but Kirk didn’t look up. McCoy tapped him on the shoulder and got a startle reaction worth at least two lines in a medical report.

“Captain, I'm sorry to interrupt,” he said, as Kirk surprise settled into annoyance. “Could I have a word with you for a moment? In private?"

Kirk frowned. “Something wrong?”

“Maybe.” Kirk hesitated, the whatever-it-was on the monitor pulling him back like a lodestone. To counterbalance it, McCoy jerked his head toward the turbolift, feeling like he was leading a dog away from a particularly odiferous patch of grass.

The ready room had clearly been an afterthought in the design, carved out of a service area as the result of some commission report or study. There was a small, utilitarian desk and two chairs, and a low beam requiring anyone over Uhura's height to duck. With a captain more prone to sulking, McCoy could see that this little nest might be a temptation, but Kirk’s rear was more or less permanently welded to the captain’s chair, so he came in there rarely.

“What’s up?” Kirk said, turning bloodshot eyes on him, his body language heavy with  _can we get this over with?_

“Captain, it’s come to my attention that you’ve been awake for 54 hours, a fact I should have been aware of, except it never occurred to me that a man of your age needed constant supervision to—“

“Spock,” Kirk huffed. “So that’s where he went. Running off to mommy because daddy wouldn’t give him the answer he wanted. Oh, sure, go ahead,” he said as McCoy waved the medical tricorder at him. “This isn’t a medical issue. This is Spock trying to avoid a direct order by using his dog whistle to get you up to the bridge. Seriously,” he said, staying McCoy’s scan with a hand on his wrist, “don’t go along with this. It’s well-intentioned, but it’s wrong.”

“Are you sure about the well-intentioned part? He was talking about Regulation 619.”

“Really?” Kirk cocked an eyebrow. “He’s getting good at pushing your buttons, isn’t he? I promise you, it’s all a bluff. He’s afraid that if I blow this mission, it’ll give the admiral ammunition against me. If I’m removed from command, Subramanya, as a flag officer, takes over and it becomes her  _de facto_  responsibility. Pretty clever, but entirely unnecessary, since we’re not going to fail.”

“Jim, your faith in Spock is touching, but—“

“Not possible.” He seemed genuinely amused.

“Even if he thought it was—“

“No. Just…no.”

“How can you be sure?” The question hung suspended for a moment, like a lightly tossed ball.

“Bones,” Kirk said, abruptly serious, “Spock and I know each other’s minds.”

“Know’ in what sense?”

“’Know’ as in, our thoughts have become one and I know that I can trust him.”

“Y’know, that last part sounded awfully Vulcan to me.” McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “You let Spock perform a mind meld, didn’t you? You let an _alien consciousness_  merge with your own, and it’s something you forget to mention to your doctor?  _Have you finally gone completely insane?_ ”

“It’s not an ‘alien consciousness,’ it’s Spock,” Kirk said, having the nerve to look affronted.

“ _Spock is a god-damned alien!_  I know you’re fond of him, Jim, but it was reckless at best, on both your parts.”

“Vulcans do it all the time. It’s like a normal conversation.”

“Yes,  _Vulcans_  do it all the time. But there are no studies on its effect on humans because  _no Vulcan in history_  has allowed those studies to be conducted.”

“Spock wouldn’t hurt me,” Kirk said flatly. “Now will you render your verdict and let me get back to work? If we’re in here alone together much longer, tongues will wag.”

McCoy heaved a sigh, past exasperation. “Look, you’ve just given me about a dozen reasons to declare you medically unfit if I wanted to. Your stress hormone levels are high, your brain activity is out of whack, and for all I know you’re under the influence of an alien intelligence. But instinct is telling me that you've got a better handle on the situation than Spock, so I’m going to forget this conversation for now. I’m going to give you a shot of dalaphaline and make you promise me on your life that as soon as you’re done with that sensor thing you’ll head straight to quarters. I know the admiral's got everybody dialed up but it's not worth risking your health over.”

“You have my word: once this is over, I’ll sleep for a week.” He tapped his comm. badge. “Mr. Spock, will you join us in my ready room?” He turned back to McCoy. “Now tongues will  _really_  wag.”

The door slid closed again and McCoy found himself under a penetrating black gaze. “Mr. Spock,” Kirk began, “Dr. McCoy has examined me for physical symptoms of fatigue that would impede my ability to perform.Your findings, doctor?”

“The captain is very tired but isn't manifesting any signs of exhaustion that would lead to impaired judgment. He’s under the allowable limits for humanoids in non-combat situations. He’s fine, Spock.”

Spock cocked an eyebrow and his eyes, unreadable, slid toward Kirk. McCoy thought uncomfortably that he would never be able to see their eyes meet again without wondering what had—or was—passing between them.

“How about it Spock?” Kirk said, crossing his arms. “Is that enough to put an end to this back-channel mutiny, or are you going to throw some more regulations at me?”

“I would be more inclined to accept Dr. McCoy ‘s opinion,” Spock said, “if I thought it were purely professional in nature and not unduly influenced by his personal relationship with you.”

“Oh!” McCoy said, throwing up his hands. “There it is! I’m surprised it even took 24 hours.  _My_  personal relationship? Really? This from the man who—“

“Gentlemen!” Kirk put up a warning hand. “I’m seeing my life flash in front of my eyes. Take me to the brig,” he said looking at Spock, “or to Sickbay,” looking at McCoy, “or let me get back to my business.”

Spock and McCoy were silent. “Good. Spock,” he said clapping him on the shoulder, “Scotty should have that device on board by the time we get to Engineering. Let’s go have a look. Bones, order up some horse tranquilizers for me for later. Hell, for the whole crew,” he said, calling behind him as the turbolift doors slid closed. “We’ll make it a party.”

  
++++   


  
  
Under the curious gaze of the command crew, McCoy made his way, rather sheepishly, out. For all his protest to Kirk, it was odd and uncomfortable to be part of a high-profile relationship. Spock may have been the first to question his motives but would hardly be the last. He remembered the adage about Caesar’s wife and reflected that at least she wasn’t also a senior officer in the Roman army.   
  


He ate lunch. He tried writing reports, but his mind kept wandering. Feeling restless, he headed down to the crew quarters level where he liked to walk laps in the wide, curving hall that spanned the circumference of the saucer section. He found it more relaxing, less hamster-wheelish than being on the treadmill in the gym, surrounded by sweating overachievers. Most of occupants of the ring knew his routine by now and simply nodded in greeting.

He found himself brooding less about Kirk’s questionable judgment about the mission and more about his questionable judgment concerning Spock. At least some of it was likely to be envy; it was disconcerting to think that he’d never have that same level of mental intimacy with Kirk, to know his inner landscape as well as he knew his outer one. On the other hand, humans had their own path to the same end, more circuitous but perhaps more enjoyable because of it. McCoy knew Kirk’s over-the-cliff approach to personal engagement well: a half hour after McCoy's tentative romantic overtures, Kirk had been naked and moaning underneath him. Spock’s initial hostility had thawed and Kirk had apparently responded by laying everything bare, throwing open the doors of his mind and letting Spock in. It might have been shallow, but on reflection McCoy felt that he’d gotten the better deal.

Halfway through his third circumambulation, his comm badge chirped.

“McCoy here.”

“ _Bones! Get up here. Kirk out_.”

“Jim, what—“ but it was too late. In any case, Kirk would have told him if he needed his medical gear.

The change in atmosphere on the bridge was palpable. Instead of a bunch of tense-shouldered specialists peering into their displays, crew members were standing around as relaxed as if they were at a cocktail party.

“Bones!” Kirk was leaning back in the command chair, knees splayed wide, hands idly stroking the controls. “Since you were a major contributor to this effort, I wanted you to be here for the exciting conclusion. In approximately—how long, Mr. Spock?”

“Exactly 42 seconds, captain.”

“In  _exactly_ 42 seconds we’re going to have confirmation of our brilliant theory.” He waited a few beats, then checked his chrono. “Well, that went by fast. Mr. Spock?”

“Computer,” Spock said, appearing, ever so slightly, to be enjoying his moment in the spotlight, “what is the purpose of the sensor device?”

“The purpose of the device is to collect and transmit particle, shockwave and electromagnetic data to a device located at 55 mark 118.”

It meant nothing to McCoy, but the bridge erupted in cheers. Sulu and Chekov clapped each other on the shoulder, a group of science officers clustered around the engineering station exchanged collegial handshakes, and out of the corner of his eye, McCoy could see Uhura slide her hand along her station until it was touching Spock’s while she looked nonchalantly in the opposite direction.

“We did it, Bones!” Kirk said expansively. “Uhura figured out that the writing on the device was a short-form military version of Klingon. Spock reverse-engineered the code. Sulu figured out exactly what it was supposed to be measuring, and Chekov got the little sucker on board without disturbing the gyroscopes. And me,” he said, drumming on his chin with his fingers. “What did I do? Oh yes, I asked a lot of intelligent-sounding questions.”

“You were the one who suggested we take the time to examine it in the first place, sir,” Sulu said. He swiveled around to glance at McCoy. “If it had turned out to be nothing, the extra time would have put us way over. But it didn’t turn out to be nothing,” he finished, grinning.

“It’s a Klingon sensor, Bones, part of an array. They’re planning to post 'Keep Out' signs on this sector because they’re turning it into a proving ground. They’re going to be testing new weapons, and we’re going to be watching them do it. Scotty’s rigging up a little traveler we can place on board so that all the data will get sent back to the Admiralty. It’s  _beautiful_.” Kirk slapped the arm of his chair.

“I am unsure of its aesthetic properties,” Spock said, looking almost pleased himself, “but it is indeed a satisfying conclusion to our investigation.” McCoy noticed there wasn’t a hint of I-told-you-so in Kirk’s eyes as they met Spock’s, just a warm and knowing smile.

“Well,” McCoy said, clearing his throat. “That’s good news. What does the admiral say to all this? It’s got to have more value than a planetary catalog.”

“Nothing yet,” Kirk shrugged. “She’s taking a nap or something. As I plan to be very soon.” He spun his chair a quarter turn and back. “Naps for everyone!” Uhura brought her fist to her mouth to stifle a laugh. Kirk’s giddy success was infectious, but if it went on much longer, he might be dancing Uhura around the bridge, to the detriment of all.

“The sooner the better, captain,” McCoy said, trying to look stern. “Now that everything’s under control, I recommend that you go to your quarters and get some sleep.”

“Whatever you say, doctor,” Kirk replied, with that loopy, irresistible smile. “You know I always follow your advice.”

+++++

Exactly a half-hour later, McCoy tapped his computer console. “Computer, what is the location of Captain Kirk?”

“ _Captain Kirk is the turbolift between decks A and D_.” Technically off the bridge, anyway. Still, he planned to do a bed check in five minutes just to be sure. A moment later, the door chimed, and Kirk loped in.

“How does this constitute going to your quarters?” McCoy asked, looking up from his display screen.

“Your quarters, my quarters—have you ever noticed what weird things pronouns are, Bones?” He sauntered over to the desk and began rearranging McCoy’s small collection of knickknacks.

“Are you sure this is just fatigue? Because you seem high as a kite.”

“The admiral showed up about five minutes after you left. She’s thrilled with the sensor scheme. Starfleet Intelligence is drooling. And now we just have to go find a couple more of those sensors instead of a shitload of planets.”

“You can’t argue with success.”

“That’s right! So don’t even try.” He grabbed McCoy by the shoulders and leaned down for a sloppy, slightly off-center kiss. Still, McCoy could feel a faint hum of overstimulation and beneath that, exhaustion.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said, standing up and tugging at Kirk’s gold shirt.

“I like where this is going.” McCoy ignored him and backed him toward the bed, shoving him into a sitting position on the bed so he could take off his boots, equestrian style, between his knees. With no further prompting, Kirk flopped back and landed with a thud.

“Bed. Good,” he sighed. “So good.” He patted the mattress weakly. “You, too. C’mon.”

“Jim, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“We’re in space,” he said crankily, voice starting to slur. “It’s midnight somewhere. Now c’mon. No, shirt  _off_. Pants  _off_.”

“Thank god success isn’t going to your head.” But McCoy did as he was told, because the bed and Kirk both looked inviting. Stripped down to his skivvies, he picked up Kirk’s legs and spun him around so he was laid out the right way, then rolled him over to make room. Kirk put up with the manhandling like an amiable sack of flour. As soon as McCoy lay down, Kirk rolled back toward him, hooked an arm around his waist, a leg around his knee, and fell asleep fast as a light switching off, breathing heavy and open-mouthed in his ear. It wasn’t exactly music, but it was close enough.

+++++

McCoy started awake. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all, but the sol light on his desk—issued to humans to prevent the disorientation of perpetual night—told him it was late afternoon.

It was rare that he could catch Jim sleeping, let alone sleeping deeply. Usually a messy, restless sprawl, he was now curled on his side facing McCoy, one arm under the pillow, the other fist clutched around the sheet. His face was pale and his lips were slightly parted, lashes resting against his cheeks, for once, without a tremble.

Whatever McCoy expected when he closed the final distance to begin sleeping with his best friend, this hadn’t been it. Jocelyn remained, in spite of everything, the template for what Jim derisively referred to as “romance,” but was closer to the ineffable lure of the unknown. Of course, that had been the problem; it had taken McCoy ten years to realize that he’d never really known her, or at least the woman she’d become; that all the things he thought they’d had in common—a love of small-town life, a garden full of prize-winning vegetables, a big dog to keep them warm on cool evenings—were things that she only loved because of him, and grew to hate because of him as well. In the end, McCoy had ended up being the one to pursue the things Jocelyn said she’d craved, adventure and challenge and risk.

Viewed from that perspective, his decision to join Starfleet might have been a means not to run away, but to finally understand her. Then he’d gone and fallen in love with someone who had risk and adventure woven into his DNA, and it ended up seeming as familiar as an old coat. It wasn’t sex that closed the gap, but a short list of minor and prosaic things. Jim always slept on the side of the bed nearest the door. He was a bit of a slob but fanatical about folding every last thing in his drawers, including his socks. He woke up not just with a boner, but a boner of ferocious proportions that on most mornings he somehow managed to ignore in spite of McCoy telling him it was a threat to the crew. The transition had been so easy, it had tricked McCoy into thinking it was next to nothing at all. Nothing, until he watched Jim Kirk asleep in his bed.

Jim woke up the way Jim always did, without preamble. He gave one of his little crooked insinuating smiles and wriggled closer, pushing himself by inches into McCoy’s arms. The other thing about Jim Kirk that was as predictable as death and taxes poked into McCoy’s thigh.

“And it’s not even morning.”

“Close enough.” Jim was still hazed with sleep but the habit of a few weeks was already kicking into gear, and he drowsily reached to stroke McCoy through his underwear while working lazy kisses from the hollow behind his earlobe down to his chin. It was so easy for McCoy to close his eyes and let his body take over, so rare that he allowed it to have any kind of vote at all, even now, when it seemed like such a good idea. But inertia wasn’t the same as momentum. He’d give in now, and then he’d give in again, and another month or two or three would pass, and the mystery would be no closer to being solved. He didn’t pull away, or even flinch, but Jim felt it all the same.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, pulling back a few inches to peer at him. “Not-morning breath?”

“No.” He watched with a pang as Jim’s smooth forehead creased.

“Oh.” Jim disengaged and rolled away far enough to sit up. McCoy already missed the warmth, was already taking a sharp shin-kick from the pleasure center of his brain:  _stupid, stupid_.

“I shouldn’t be making a thing of this,” McCoy said, already remorseful. “You’ve had a hell of a couple of days. This’ll wait.”

“No, it won’t.” Jim cocked up a knee and rested his elbow on it. In the half-light of quarters, his features, strong in profile, were shadowed. “I owe you an answer. Don’t think I haven’t been thinking about it.”

McCoy pushed himself up to a sitting position, too, and let his left leg drop to the floor for balance, a too-symbolic half-in, half-out.

“I spend a lot of timing staring at space,” Jim said, not looking at him. “You know how they say, ‘Command is lonely’? Well, sometimes it’s just boring. It’s funny—we collect all this scanning data, and none of it can tell you what’s actually going to happen. Like today. We could have collected every shred of information from every miserable, barren little planet and been no closer to knowing what the Klingons were going to do. Then we hear this little ping from a sensor, this little bird that thinks we’re its mommy, and we have the answer. I could have done the ‘right thing,’ what Spock and Subramanya wanted me to do, and been dead wrong. Do you know what I’m saying? God, I hope so, because I have no idea myself.”

His voice sounded husky; sleeping with his mouth open had parched his throat. McCoy said softly, “Do you want something to drink? Some juice, maybe?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” He waited, staring into the half-darkness, while McCoy went to his small replicator and came back with a glass of orange juice.

“Thanks.” Jim took the glass from him and drained half of it. “What I’m saying is, I could analyze this thing to death and come to the wrong conclusion. It could be eloquent and heartfelt and completely wrong. So I’m just going to follow my instincts. You asked me to tell you what I want?  _This_  is what I want. I know it may not seem like much to you—no house, no dog, no kids, just crazy brandy-swilling admirals and mysterious vortices and Klingons shooting at us. I know my standards are low, and I know I’m a selfish dick, but I want you to want this, too. I don’t want you to tolerate it out of loyalty or friendship or whatever. I don’t mind you complaining because at this point if you didn’t I’d think you were dead. But this should be  _good_ ; that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”

“But I  _do_  appreciate it,” McCoy said with surprise. “Of course I do. Have I given you any other impression? Because if so, then  _I’m_  the selfish dick. It’s just that—this wasn’t the plan. It’s like I’m leading somebody else’s life, somebody smarter and braver and more adventurous than me. I was going to be a small-town doctor—you know, broken bones and lollipops and folksy wisdom. When that fell apart I joined Starfleet so someone could tell me what to do, because I knew fuck-all myself at that point. I figured I’d end up on some starbase or outpost, patching up engineers and learning to read Russian novels in Russian. It didn’t matter, as long as it was a few million kilometers away and I didn’t have to care about anything. And then you came along.”

“Sorry I messed up your brilliant plan.”

McCoy took the empty glass from him. “Your middle name is pretty much ‘Messed Up Plan.’ And mine is ‘Fucked Up Relationship.’ Well, not this time. If I’ve given you any reason to doubt, it stops now.” He pushed his hand up under the hem of Jim’s shirt so he could rest it on the small of his back. “I could say you’re two different people, my best friend and this brilliant, handsome starship captain. But you’re not; you’re always the same person, and I’m in just as much love with the starship captain as I am with my old Academy buddy. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect anything of this. But here we are.”

“In love with me?” That got Jim to turn his head.

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

“No. None at all. Especially since—“

“You don’t have to say it just because I did,” McCoy said quickly. “That’s only a rule in books.”

“I shouldn’t be taking your romantic advice, according to you.”

“That’s probably true. But save it. Trust me, it’s a good thing to hang on to for when you’re really in trouble.”

“Are you scared of me saying it?” Kirk looked merely curious.

“I just don’t want to force you into anything,” McCoy said. Kirk snorted. “Fine. But don’t tell me. Show me.”

McCoy had expected that line to be like pouring gasoline on a fire, but Kirk just slid an arm around his bare shoulders and leaned in to kiss him, slow and soft. Usually Kirk’s kisses were like assaulting the summit of K2; this was something different from his usual horny triumphalism. Jim kissed his mouth thoroughly, taking his time, before working his way back up the line of his chin to his ear. He felt Jim’s breath, hot and damp, blowing lightly, and he shivered. His tongue followed, tracing the contours, before Jim’s teeth deftly grabbed his earlobe and gently tugged. McCoy sighed and felt his back arch, his cock awakening, while he closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders as if sinking into a warm bath.

Jim continued his exploration, down the tendon of McCoy’s neck and to the curve of his shoulder. He was naked to the waist, and Jim fully clothed; the exposure was part of the excitement, but he wanted to feel Jim’s skin against his. He slipped a hand under the hem of Jim’s shirt again, not stopping at the small of his back this time but sliding it up over the lean expanse of his back, tracing the hollow of his spine. Jim arched in turn, his mouth pausing for an intake of breath, and took the hint. He gave McCoy a sharp, amused look before pulling the black shirt efficiently over his head.

It was always a bit of a surprise, that sudden expanse of fair skin. Where McCoy was from, men worked outside with their shirts off a good part of the year. Jim’s pale flesh, with its light scattering of freckles, spoke of long, cold winters and northern heritage. Odd that it should matter, here in space where they were both foreigners, that they were from different parts of the same land mass. But that was part of the attraction of coming together, the desire to combine stories, to intertwine genes. Jim’s body was familiar because it was male, and exotic because it was someone else’s.

McCoy ran both hands up Jim’s body, front and back, enjoying the first contact of skin. It was warm from sleep and from being wrapped around McCoy, but Jim shivered, eyes fluttering shut. He wanted to tell Jim what it was like, to be able to touch him this way, but words had failed him a long time ago. Instead, he pushed Jim back against the pillows and began to explore in earnest, feeling unrepentantly possessive. Jim watched him, not passive but not challenging, letting McCoy do what he wanted. When he popped the button on Jim’s trousers he cracked a little smile, and shifted, raising his hips so McCoy could pull them down, pants and underwear at the same time. He tossed them on the floor and sat back on his knees, running light fingertips down Jim’s chest and sides, watching him flinch and shudder. He had all the time in the world now, never had to worry again that the evanescent thing that brought them together would let them drift apart again, never had to worry that any time would be the last time.

He let his touch deepen, stroking Jim’s abs and the slight swell of his belly, the indentations above his hipbones. He was already erect, but that was no surprise; he could count the times he’d seen Jim’s cock in its quiescent state on one hand. He’d pretended to diagnose priapism and offer treatment for it, and Jim had made it clear there was only one treatment he’d accept. Jim’s erect cock was beautiful, long and pale as the rest of him, but for now McCoy carefully avoided it, letting his hands drift down to massage his thighs instead.

Jim tipped his head back and cocked a knee, parting his legs to give McCoy better access. McCoy let his teasing fingertips graze along Jim’s inner thighs, within kissing distance of his balls, still refusing a direct touch. Jim arched and thrust his hips, not resisting but urging McCoy along, impatient. In response, McCoy shook his head a little and ran a finger from the swell of Jim’s cheeks to just behind his balls. His reaction was immediate; he gasped and reached out a lightning-quick hand to grab McCoy’s wrist and direct it where he wanted it to go. Just as fast, McCoy caught the hand and pushed it down firmly on the bed. When Jim, with a rebellious smirk, tried to lift it again, McCoy seized both wrists and climbed over him, forcing them down firmly next to his shoulders. He expected Jim to push back against him, anticipated the pleasure of feeling his lean strength, but Jim’s eyes closed tight and his lips parted in pure pleasure.

“You _like_ that,” McCoy said wonderingly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Assume I like everything. Don’t stop.”

“Yes,  _sir._ ” His pants having suddenly gotten uncomfortable, McCoy called a timeout to remove them. Jim didn’t help, just watched with smoky appreciation. He thought that Jim could arouse him with nothing more than his eyes, the absolute focus, intense blueness always a little bloodshot, cool and hot at the same time. Kirk waited patiently, hands up, for McCoy to finish. Naked now, he straddled Jim and circled his obedient wrists with his hands, letting Jim see how the muscles of his chest and shoulders worked as he levered himself up and over, lowering his own erection so it brushed Jim’s, still keeping pure his refusal to touch him with his hands. Jim’s pelvis gave an involuntary jerk, and he shuddered. His eyes locked on McCoy’s and he tried to dare him with a taunting smile. At the feel of McCoy’s erection grazing along his own the smile failed him, and he gasped.

It took control and concentration to tease him this way, but it was worth the strain in his arms, the clenching feeling in his belly, to know that he could do this to Jim. It was not power but agency, the feeling of being the one to do the doing, not the one lost in helpless enjoyment, though that, as Jim was discovering, had its pleasures too. He knew it was likely impossible to come from this, but felt at the same time as if a slight adjustment in his brain, a click of a trigger, could make him if he wanted to. But it was much too soon.

McCoy lowered his body over Jim’s, giving them both relief. Though his wrists were free, Jim held them patiently at his sides for a few moments, waiting for tacit permission to wrap them around the hard, solid expanse of McCoy’s back. McCoy didn’t spare his weight, let it rest fully and heavily on Jim, feeling how they were wedded at groin and belly and chest. Now McCoy began to kiss him, harder than he’d been kissed before. He nipped lightly at Jim’s lips with his own, insinuating his tongue, a little at first and then more as Jim opened his mouth, allowing full access. There was nothing he couldn’t do; that’s what Jim was trying to tell him. The thought sent a jolt to McCoy’s groin and he drew back with a gasp, leaving Jim kissing air, his eyes popping open, blurry and unfocused.

McCoy leaned awkwardly across him to the nightstand, putting his left nipple within range of Jim’s mouth, but Jim showed restraint, waiting for his fumbling hand to find the bottle. With what he needed in his grasp, he settled back on his knees once more, still straddling Jim’s narrow hips but shifting down a little lower, providing clearance for their cocks. He made a production out of pouring some of the viscous liquid into his palm, not able to keep an entirely straight face but not caring, either. Jim watched, almost vibrating with impatience to be touched, but matching McCoy’s smile, amused and aroused in equal measure.

“You have no idea how hot you look right now," Jim whispered. "You could do this to me all night, and I’d let you. I wouldn’t even beg you to touch my cock, I’d  _let_  you. Unless you want me to beg. Do you?”

“You don’t have to beg. I’ll give you whatever you want,” McCoy said hoarsely, willing his erection back under control. The dirty talk was new; people Jim seduced tended to stay seduced. It tested his newfound discipline sorely.

The liquid in his palm had warmed to the heat of his body. He cupped the hand under Jim’s sac and stroked upward, coating the underside of his cock in one long, slow stroke. Jim’s reaction was immediate; he gave a breathy gasp and arched half off the bed, grabbing fistfuls of sheet. The first touch was the hardest, McCoy knew, so he smoothed the liquid up to the head and back down, leaving no part of his cock untouched. It glistened, taut and flushed, a miracle of resurrection.

He pressed his free hand to the side of Jim’s hip, hooking his thumb around the hipbone, not to restrain but to anchor. With his sticky right hand he began to stroke again, making a V, rubbing his palm over the balls and up the shaft to finish with a wet twist over the head. He knew what it felt like; his own cock twitched in sympathetic response. He let go of Jim’s hip long enough to tease his foreskin back, gently running his thumb around the exposed head. Jim made a faint mewling sound, and McCoy saw his fingers twitch, as if he were fighting the urge to involve his two very capable and currently idle hands.

He would have been happy to play with Jim’s cock all evening; maybe someday he would. But it wasn’t the long, lazy nighttime and it probably wasn’t fair, since Jim was exhausted and would probably have to drag himself back to the bridge before too long. McCoy grabbed the little bottle again and dripped more fluid onto his fingers. This time he used it on himself, enough to do the job but not so much that he couldn’t enjoy a little of the tight, fiery friction. Jim’s eyes were still closed, so he didn’t see McCoy position himself over Jim’s rigid cock and carefully lower himself, making sure it didn’t happen too quickly, that Jim got that feeling of being on the threshold for a moment before he popped inside. At the instant of penetration Jim’s eyes flew open, and, as if a spell had been broken, he clutched at McCoy’s arms, which were tight from the strain of resisting the desire to impale himself fully and immediately.

“Holy shit,” Jim said, gasping.

“You OK?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah yeah yeah. Keep going.”

Inch by inch, McCoy let himself slide down, engulfing Jim and taking him inside. His reward was the brush against his prostate, the guttural noises that were issuing from Jim’s red and parted lips. Jim slid his hands down to rest on McCoy’s hips, riding the subtle motion as McCoy began to rise and fall, a matter of centimeters, knowing the slightest movement would be enough. Under Kirk’s gaze, now bright and fully engaged, he wrapped his hand, still just barely slick enough, around his own cock and began to stroke it in the same lazy rhythm.

“Oh, god,” Jim said, with something between a hiccup and a moan. “That’s going to be burned into my brain. That’ll be the last thing I see before I die.”

“Then you better be prepared to finish me off in the afterlife,” McCoy said with a little thrust. He felt a bottomless greed, to take his time and make it last, but Jim’s cock was twitching inside him, his sighs and moans getting more desperate. Rising on his knees he gave three long thrusts and then reached back, brushing the underside of Jim’s balls while he gave himself one hard, decisive jerk. He came first, remembering just in time to aim low, spurting over Jim’s chest and belly, as Jim cried out and gripped his hips tight enough to bruise, and let go. He could feel the pulses as Jim emptied himself, the ecstatic expression on his face filling his own vision before as gray spots tried to crowd in.

They stayed like that for long moments, spent and sticky, until Jim began to make uncomfortable noises; his epic climaxes tended to leave him sore afterward. McCoy detached, the exit a little more painful than the entry, and having no strength to spare, collapsed down again across Jim’s chest.

“Sorry,” he said into his clavicle.

“No problem,” Jim said, voice an octave higher than normal and dreamy. “You’re a heavy guy, but I like the way it feels. You between me and the world.”

McCoy turned his face so he could kiss Jim’s neck, too lazily sated to go for his mouth. “You should go back to sleep. I’ll vouch that it’s medically necessary.”

“If you use that excuse every time you want to fuck me twice, people are going to catch on,” Kirk said, running a slow-motion hand over his hair. “I’m definitely going to need to shower, though. Spock has a nose like a bloodhound.”

“And how I look forward to his wry commentary. Do you think we could arrange an armistice with Spock and Uhura, or maybe a mutual defense treaty? I'm sure the admiral would negotiate it for us.”

“No need. Spock knows what’s going on. He’s known for a long time. I think he’s been pretty discreet, don’t you?”

“Spock knows  _what_?” This was worth McCoy lifting his head, so he could pin Jim with a glare. “Oh, no, no, no. That mind thing did  _not_ give Spock free reign to eavesdrop on our sex lives. It didn’t, or I’m going to take back all the nice things I said about you.”

“I assure you, he finds the idea of you having access to my body as distasteful as you find the idea of him having access to my brain. You have nothing to worry about.”

“This is already much more complicated than I want it to be, and it’s been what? An hour?”

“Give us some credit,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “If you start counting from Riverside—which I do, because I know of several cultures where vomiting on someone is considered a proposal of marriage--then it’s been almost half a decade. Wow, this is easy. If I’d known how easy, I could have saved us both a lot of trouble.”

“The trouble is part of the fun,” McCoy said, his weight making it no easier for Jim to get out of bed. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

+++++

Spock meditates alone that evening because Nyota Uhura has decided to stay at the impromptu celebration being hosted by the admiral in the observation lounge. When Spock left, Admiral Subramanya was offering instruction in a dance called the  _merengue_ , using the captain and Dr. McCoy to demonstrate. Spock understands the human need to memorialize successes in this manner, but does not share it. Moreoever, to the considerable disappointment of Nyota Uhura, Spock does not dance.

There is no skill required to locate Jim’s mind tonight; a Vulcan child could do it. It is clear and bright as a star through the unfiltering medium of space. Spock is careful not to allow Jim’s emotions to transmit to his own. It is a cardinal violation of the mind link to do so. But he feels a deep satisfaction that Jim, after so many days of stress and worry and so many weeks of nameless anxiety over a matter Spock could not and would not try to fathom, is content at last. More than content: he is like a beacon radiating joy and pleasure, for those that have minds to perceive it.

The door swishes open and Nyota steps in noiselessly. Spock almost smiles; he has been so immersed in Jim’s mind that he failed to detect her approach.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” she says, bending down to kiss the back of his neck. “I just came to say goodnight. I’ll be going straight to bed; I’m dead on my feet. Not literally,” she adds quickly, not giving him a chance to tease her on the subject of human metaphors.

“I would not suggest that you do otherwise,” Spock says, taking her hand as she sinks to the floor beside him. “The last few days have been most taxing.” He does not add that it has not been so for him; humans do not like to be reminded of their relative weakness.

“I don’t know how he does it,” she says wonderingly. “We go from probable failure to complete, blazing victory in 48 hours,  _and_  he manages to charm the pants off the admiral. Figure of speech!” she says, catching his look. “I swear, you’re almost impossible to talk to.”

“I do not believe that it is the admiral’s pants the captain wishes to charm off,” Spock says solemnly. Nyota’s long eyelashes flash upward.

“Was that a _joke_?” she asks incredulously. “Unbelievable. What’s gotten into you?”

“I do not know,” Spock says, slipping an arm around her slender waist. “But I think that I am happy.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Geeky Notes_ : Boy, did I invite myself a lot of technobabble and canon trouble by introducing a detail-oriented admiral. As there are still no deck plans for the Alternate 1701, this is an awkward mashup between the original 1701, the refit, and the 1701A. The location of the captain's ready room is purposely vague since, if it exists, it's likely on the deck below the bridge, but it's more fun (and makes more sense) to have it adjacent to the bridge. Kids: Don't store your frozen deuterium on the Flight Deck just because people on the Internet do it! That stuff is highly flammable. It’s also total nonsense, because frozen deuterium would be much better kept in an unpressurized cargo hold, but at that point I was too in love with the idea of frozen deuterium to care.


End file.
